Phuket
by GIRL IN STORY
Summary: Eddie comes to stay with Richie after the events of It Chapter Two, which makes it a lot harder for Richie to keep his secret. It's not the one you think.
1. Chapter 1

Bill lived in a McMansion that Audra had helped him purchase after the unmitigated success of his film adaptation for The Glittering. Mike was still traveling the world, but he was doing it on Bill Denbourough's dime, so he was staying for months at a time in the nicest AirBnBs money could rent. Ben lived in a mansion that he had designed himself. Beverly was living with him, but she only took up, like, two feet, and that was after she'd had a big meal.

Richie's apartment was small, not because he couldn't afford more space, but because his square-footage seemed to be directly proportional to his loneliness.

So why the fuck did Eddie decide to stay with him?

"I can take the couch."

Eddie looked at him like crazy, which was fair. "Your couch is inflatable."

"More space!" said Richie. "It deflates during the day!"

"Because clearly space is your priority," said Eddie. "I thought you were, like, famous. Just how bad is your manager?"

"It's not that..." Richie shrugged, so he wouldn't have to finish that sentence, but Eddie just nodded.

"Well, we've shared a hammock. This should be fine."

Richie laughed, and it was only a little hysterical.

At least his apartment was in order (if you didn't count the hole he had punched in the bathroom door). For as long as he could afford it, Richie had employed a cleaning service, even though the only visitors he ever had were from the cleaning service.

Eddie led him to his own bedroom. (To be fair, the kitchen was part of the living room, and the bathroom had a picture of Jack Nicholson taped over the hole.)

"So what happened to the bathroom door?"

"Toy boating accident," said Richie. "Don't you want dinner or something first?"

"We're not sleeping together, Tozier."

"I kn— I just— I know you didn't eat on the plane."

"Actually I did. Most East Asian airlines have surprisingly healthy in-flight food, and Phuket just expanded to the continental U.S. after achieving great commercial success in Thailand."

"Phuket?"

"Yeah," said Eddie. "I don't think they'll do so great here."

Richie showered while Eddie put his own sheets on the bed, and then Eddie showered while Richie had a panic attack.

"No More Tears? Seriously, Richie?"

"Yeah, I know. Johnson & Johnson are liars. Both of them."

"We'll go shopping for adult hygiene products tomorrow," said Eddie. "Don't worry. I already have a list."

"I'm not," Richie lied. He wasn't worried about Eddie completely overhauling his shower caddy and/or life. They both needed it. He was more worried about what would happen when Eddie found out there wasn't much point in overhauling either. Not when—

"...be conditioning. A two-in-one is like a Playstation. It plays games and DVDs, but it doesn't do either _well_. Richie? ...Richie!"

"Sorry." Somehow they had ended up in bed. Richie would have hoped he hadn't done anything too embarrassing during his little dissociative episode, but his head was already on Eddie's shoulder. "I was just— Just talk to me."

"I was," said Eddie.

"I mean— So your firm has an LA branch?"

"I'm not falling for that one again."

"No! I really wanna' know."

So Eddie hesitantly began describing his transfer, growing more confident after Richie didn't fake snore through the first few sentences.

Maybe he could keep it a secret. Eddie was a nosy little bastard, but Richie had kept his deepest, darkest secret for almost forty years. Of course, he hadn't known Eddie for twenty-seven of those years, but—

"….are always spamming the office with their bake sales and ball sports, but I send one lousy email about Mr. Ratburn's wedding, and they call a meeting. They were trying to be so PC about it, but the Ops Manager kept calling it 'about the gay rat thing' and I _know _she's born-again Christian, so I guess… So I guess it's not working?"

Richie blinked. "Huh?"

"Wasn't it supposed to put you to sleep?"

"Oh," said Richie. "Yeah."

"What's wrong, Richie?" Eddie's brow furrowed even more than usual. It was adorable. It was definitely giving him wrinkles. Adorable wrinkles. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No! No. I mean…Obviously not." Richie laughed. His head was still on Eddie's shoulder, and their legs were now tangled together.

"So what's wrong?"

"I'm dying."

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time Richie thought he hit rock bottom, he was twenty-seven.

He was working for Saturday Night Live and his hair looked the best it ever had. Richie was the youngest guy SNL had in rotation, so he had to keep in shape for the Himbo roles. Some days, his only meal was vodka. He preferred bourbon, but clear alcohol had fewer calories. He used to have a healthy distrust of people who said they forgot to eat. Richie used to forget he _was _eating, until he looked down and saw all the empty ice cream cartons.

Now, when he wasn't sleeping, he was working, and when he wasn't working, he wasn't sleeping. His manager kept getting him bit roles in crap romcoms and gigs in the gradually-gentrified NYC standup scene. At least it made Bobby's diet plan gotten easier to follow.

The second time Richie thought he hit rock bottom, he was thirty-three.

Richie had moved from New York to LA. Now he was _starring _in the crap romcoms. His fans sent him jewelry, flowers, chocolates, marriage proposals, poetry, dead animals, and on one memorable occasion, a kidney. Pity it wasn't a liver, but the FBI probably would've confiscated it anyway. (His drinking problem had turned into a cocaine problem. He still drank; it just wasn't his biggest problem.)

Apparently, Richie was very big in Japan. He had everything he'd ever wanted. Except for sleep.

The third time Richie thought he hit rock bottom, he was forty. He'd just been handed bourbon and mints by a stagehand who should not have known him that well. The back of his mind was a news ticker of childhood memories, but mostly, he was grateful for the mints.

The fourth time Richie thought he hit rock bottom, he was still forty, and he actually hit his bottom on the rocky cistern of Its lair. He fell foot-first, but his feet gave way when his syndesmosis tendon tore, and he fell backwards, somehow landing on both his head and ass. That was the fourth worst thing about being tall. Right after air travel and worrying about short people looking up his nostrils. Richie had owned and used a neti pot for _twenty-seven years_ without knowing _why_.

When Richie really did hit rock bottom, he didn't think about it at all. He was too busy thinking, _Oh, god, god, no, god, not him, not him, me, please, god, please—_

Then he hit it again.

And again.

And again.

And—


	3. Chapter 3

The Losers split up the day after they killed It.

There were wives, careers, and giant phallic effigies to get back to. There were abusive douchebags to divorce and endings to write. The Losers were adults, but even as children, they had been more realistic than their shared trauma of fighting a carnival tulpa from outer space would lead one to expect. It made sense for them to leave. There was nothing left to do in Derry. Nothing left to say. No words.

No letters.

It seemed too soon to everyone. Richie knew it wasn't just him, even though he was the only one without anything to get back to. He could feel the…. bad vibes from the moment they woke up. Richie hadn't heard the Losers get up, apart from one high-pitched giggle that might have been Bev, but was probably Bill. He could feel their collective energy, like a school hall during midterms.

Eddie was the only one still asleep. He was lying in bed next to Richie, because his room was a crime scene with a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. They weren't touching, except for the fingers circling Eddie's wrist like a bracelet, the clasp of fingertips resting on his pulse point.

Their scars were gone, like Christ, back from the dead. Mike's arm was still broken, so that sucked. His was the only injury (other than Richie's torn tendon, which he was expertly ignoring). Eddie still had his cheek wound, but Bowers wasn't a supernatural entity. He was just coerced by one.

Eddie had redressed the wound himself, after brushing his teeth. Richie was honestly impressed with how well Eddie had been handling his new and infectable orifice. What a fucking trooper. Of course, Myra probably wouldn't handle it so well, and her spiral would suck Eddie into a vortex of his own, but Richie was trying not to think about that.

He was trying not to think about his own life, and how little it still seemed like one. Maybe he could get a fresh start too. There was nobody to divorce, but he could fire Bobby. That relationship had been toxic, even before the ipecac.

He was trying not to think about the white hair he'd found in the mirror when Eddie made him brush his teeth. Not even a hair. A whole lock, like the Bride of Frankenstein.

He was trying not to think about anything except for the gurgle of blood, going only where it belonged, right underneath his fingertips.

Richie wasn't in denial. He knew this couldn't last, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except—

Eddie opened his eyes, and Richie let go of his wrist.

"Hi." He blinked a few times, and Richie tried not to imagine Eddie fluttering his eyelashes. "What's up?"

It begged for a dick joke, but they were having a moment.

"The sun," said Richie.

"You think?" Eddie rolled his eyes. Apparently, only Richie was having a moment.

"I try not to."

"What?"

"Nothing." Richie smiled. "Let's get some breakfast."


	4. Chapter 4

"What the fuck do you mean you're _dying_?"

When Richie got stressed, he vomited. When Eddie got stressed, he word-vomited, his patter so fast only auctioneers could follow.

"Is it cancer? Are you sick? Oh, god, is that why you keep throwing up? And losing hair? What stage is it at? What stage was it diagnosed at? Never mind. I'll ask your doctor. We're going to the hospital. Why aren't you putting on your coat?"

"I'm not sick."

Eddie's face unwrinkled just to wrinkle again, like Richie's forehead after Bobby bullied him into trying Botox.

Richie had an idea for a show he'd been fiddling with for a few months. It was a little derivative of _The Walking Dead_, but a lot less pedestrian.

Botox was the perfect origin story for a zombie apocalypse. Botulism was a toxin, but it also a paralytic— a preservative of sorts. The only people infected at first would be rich bitches and businessmen with sweaty handshakes. So no one would notice.

The working title was Headshot. Sometimes Richie thought about pitching it to Bobby, but then he sobered up.

"Richard Trashmouth Tozier, if this is your idea of a joke, I swear to god—"

"You got me." Richie waggled his eyebrows. "Although I love how willing you were to play doctor."

Eddie blushed. "You said you were dying."

"Jeez, Eds. Yes, I'm dying. Of hunger."

"Don't call me— What?"

"You may have had your Phuket, but I was busy putting up pictures of Jack Nicholson," said Richie. "There's one on the inside of the door too, so you have something to look at while you poop. You're welcome."

"I am never thanking you for that," said Eddie. "Why didn't you _say _something?"

"I did," said Richie, "and you assumed I had cancer."

"Well, next time don't say it like that!"

The room was dark, but Richie could feel Eddie flop back down so forcefully he made the mattress bounce, the sleepy equivalent of slamming a door. Cute, cute, _cute_.

"Go back to bed," said Richie. "I'll tell the delivery guy to text me so the doorbell doesn't wake you up."

"Don't you have food here?"

"Not real food," Richie said, forgetting for a moment that, even if Eddie couldn't see his face, the smile was still evident in his voice. "Just Keanu and acky berries."

"That's not how you pronounce either of— You shopped for me?" Eddie sounded surprised, but Richie didn't need to hear it. He didn't need to see it. No light, no glasses, blood rushing in his ears like they were pressed against a super-macabre seashell, and he could still read Eddie better than he had ever read a crowd. "Well, now I'm hungry too. You're frankly exhausting to live with. It's no wonder you're so skinny. Just don't order—"

"I can't hear you!" Richie was already out of bed and halfway down the hall.

"Thai food!"

"Paithoon! My man. How's Beau Thai treating you? See? I told you it would be a better fit than the Pad Pad. Yeah, but I got company, so two of the usual, except make one so mild you could air it on PBS. Oh, do you have mango and sticky rice? Great. Stick us up."

Eddie finally caught up, pulling one of Richie's sweaters on over his pajama set, which was frankly unfair.

"Goddamnit, Richie."

Richie shrugged, unapologetic. "You gave me a craving."

"I hate you."

"But it's a love-hate relationship, right?"

"Yes," said Eddie. "You love me, and I hate you."

Richie had to laugh at that.

It was funny, because it was true.

Eddie put on one of The Late Shows. Richie had been interviewed by the host last year, but he couldn't remember her name. It wasn't an insult to her. He had repressed…. pretty much every part of his life that wasn't already lost to clown-induced amnesia. The alcohol helped.

Richie started singing to himself, under his breath, unaware he was doing it.

"_I've got two chickens to paralyze_

_With the force of a great Thai food."_

A commercial came on. He couldn't tell what it was for, but a woman was moaning.

So probably yogurt.

"_Sweet dreams are made of cheese._

_Who am I to disagree?_

_Travel the—"_

Eddie muted the next commercial. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Your concern is touching, Eds."

"Don't call me that." Eddie pulled a blanket over their laps. Technically, it was a Snuggie, but he didn't need to know that. "I'm not concerned about anything except being exposed to your germs."

"Cancer isn't contagious."

"You already said you don't have cancer." He rolled his eyes. They stopped at the bottom. "Is this a Snuggie?"

"Uh huh," said Richie. "Want to share?"

"Fuck off."

"_Nobody loves me," _Richie sang, a little louder. "_Everybody hates me. Guess I'll go eat everything."_


	5. Chapter 5

Richie covered up his white hair with Clairol Nice 'n Easy in Brown Black, because it smelled better than Just for Men, and gendered marketing was for schmucks.

He covered up everything else with drinking. It was a catchall: poor impulse control, memory problems, confusion, aggression, depression, mood swings, cognitive issues, and loss of motor skills.

The seizures were harder to hide. They were subclinical and nonconvulsive, but Eddie had already threatened him with therapy if he kept staring off into space.

Eddie had done a lot of research before starting full fidelity Dialectical Behavior Therapy. He went twice a week— once for individual and once for group.

DBT was different than the kind of therapy Richie had once been mandated by the court. DBT was psychoeducational, so it was more like college, except the teachers actually cared about your mental health. There were four modules: Mindfulness, Distress Tolerance, Emotional Regulation, and Interpersonal Communication. Eddie was on Distress Tolerance. It seemed to be working, if the amount of time he'd been spending with Richie was anything to go by.

Traditional therapy was about the Why. Which neuron was firing blanks. Which parent diddled you as a toddler. DBT was about the How. How to get better. How to change. That was the titular dialectical: change versus acceptance.

Eddie said it was a lot like the Serenity Prayer.

_God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,_

_Courage to change the things I can,_

_And wisdom to know the difference._

Richie had never heard that version before.

Eddie's office in LA was a lot more relaxed than its NYC counterpart. He could work from home most of the week. Richie pretended to do the same, while really browsing Ugly Renaissance Babies on Tumblr. He had fired Bobby, by text, then put his phone on silent. If any of the Losers needed him, they could text Eddie.

Sometimes, Richie texted them on Eddie's phone, and let them guess who it was. They always did.

He was texting Ben a particularly Ugly Renaissance Baby when the seizure hit.

His throat seized up first. It felt like every muscle in his body tightened. Like he was doing Eddie's progressive muscle relaxation, but he forgot the relaxation part. He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. He couldn't even close his eyes, so he saw every microexpression on Eddie's face when he walked into the room.

"Is that my ph— Richie?"

_God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,_

_Courage to change the things I can,_

_And forgiveness when I finally snap._

"Richie?"

DBT couldn't grant forgiveness, but body disposal usually required some Distress Tolerance.

Richie knew this from experience.

_God, grant me—_

One day his throat would close for good, and Eddie would probably find his body.

Good thing he was in therapy.

"Richie!"

_God_—


	6. Chapter 6

"_Rich!"_

The first time, Richie got all the way to the Kissing Bridge.

"_Rich!"_

The second time, he got all the way to L.A.

"_Hey, Rich! Wake up!"_

The third time, he got a fucking clue.

"_Yeah, yeah! There he is, buddy! Hey, Richie, listen."_

Of course, it helped to have Stan explain everything like he was a three-year old.

"_I think I got it man. I think I killed It! I did!"_

That was how Stan always talked to Richie. It was comforting. He was surprisingly comforting for a ghost. Then Richie stopped crying and started listening.

_"I think I killed it for re—"_

There was no point leaving the cistern when Richie would end up back on his back, looking up at Eddie, haloed by the fading Deadlights, like an angel or a dentist.

Eddie was supposed to die in this universe. Pennywise was using the temporal properties of the Deadlights to taunt Richie with a future that he couldn't save them from.

Maturin made the vision loop, gave Richie a chance to practice, so he could get it right in real life. Maturin didn't believe it was possible, but he was old, and old people never believed like kids did.

"He keeps calling me 'my child'," said Stan, in that deadpan of his. Deadpan Stan. He would always be Richie's straight man.

"You are a child compared to me," said Maturin, like they weren't waiting for the level to reload so Richie could relive his worst nightmare for the fourth time in a row.

"Listen to me," said Stan. He got down on the ground next to Richie and what was left of Eddie. "We don't have long. Maturin is using the last of his power to do this. It's a favor, in exchange for killing Pennywise. You know how to do that. You just have to figure out how to save Eddie."

"I can't!" Richie started crying again, tears cutting tracks in the dirt and the blood, but it was just Stan.

"Yes, you can. You can save him. You can save yourself. Listen to me, Richie. This is important. Being in the Deadlights this long— It's not good for you. Only Bev made it out untouched, and we all know she's the strongest of us. It drove Bowers crazy. Me too. That's why I killed myself. My wife's going to send you some letters, but I was just trying to make the rest of the Losers feel better about it. You need to know. It wasn't… honorable. Suicide is never honorable."

Richie always thought the idea of death with honor was kind counterintuitive considering most people shit themselves when they die.

"If anything, my death just gave him more ammunition to use against you," said Stan. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Richie."

"It wasn't your fault," said Richie. He didn't know what the fuck was going on, but he knew that much. Stan was the best of them. Bev may have been the strongest, but Stan was definitely the best.

Stan hung his head, even though he wasn't the one crying. "Yes, I do. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did that to you. Don't do that to Eddie."

"What?"

"You're going to save him, but you're going to be fucked up from the Deadlights." Stan grabbed Richie's shoulders. "The longer you stay in, the worse it will get. The Deadlights drive you crazy, but eventually the damage will go beyond psychological."

"I don't care," said Richie.

"Maybe not now, but you will. Eddie _definitely _will. Let him take care of you. Promise me, Richie."

"I— How? How do I save him?"

"You must discover that on your own," said Maturin. It was hard to look at him. He was all bright light and big mouth.

"Are you related to the sloppy bitch?" asked Richie.

The Neibolt House began to collapse in on itself. Stan was still holding Richie's shoulders. He shook them a little, and Richie tried to look at him. It was even harder than looking at Maturin.

"I'm sorry, Stan," he said. Richie still didn't know what the fuck was going on, but he knew that much. He was the worst of them.

"It wasn't your fault," said Stan, that same deadpan.

A rock hit Richie in the face, grinding his glasses into his eyes, and it wasn't exactly painless, but it was less painful than the alternative.

"_Rich!"_


	7. Chapter 7

This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence.

* * *

When Richie came to, Eddie was talking, low and soft, because of course he knew the emergency treatment for subclinical seizures.

They were sitting on the couch, but they weren't touching. The coffee table was pulled back, so it wouldn't be a tripping hazard. The _Amphigorey _had fallen off and open to The Doubtful Guest. Richie laughed.

Eddie stopped talking, and started touching. First was a hand on Richie's forehead— the back of his hand, like he was checking for a fever. Richie was pretty sure it gave him a fever. Then there were palms running down his shoulders, rubbing his upper arms, as if Eddie had somehow found him too cold.

He looked at Richie with those unnecessarily-large eyes, like an X-ray machine, penetrating and dangerous in high doses.

"You're really dying."

"Eds—"

"Shut up!"

"Wow," Richie tried a smile on for size but stopped when it didn't fit. "I know you don't like the nickname, but—"

"Are you really…?" Eddie seemed to be having trouble finishing his sentence, which was a first for him. Usually, he finished other people's sentences for them. Usually Richie's.

"I think so," Richie whispered. "I don't know. It's a… It's the Deadlights. I was in them too long."

"But Bev was in the Deadlights for longer than you were." Eddie was trying not to cry.

"No, she wasn't."

"It was just a few minutes, Richie." Eddie had stopped trying not to cry, and now he was just trying to hide it from Richie.

"Yeah." He swept his thumb across Eddie's cheekbone. "No. It was a loop. Sometimes I was in the loop for a few minutes. Sometimes for a few days."

Eddie knocked his hand away, but then he grabbed it and didn't let go. "How many times?"

1\. He warned Eddie about the claw about to impale him.

Eddie said, "What did you—"

2\. He rolled them over, so Pennywise would stab him instead.

The claw went through them both.

3\. He pushed Eddie to the side and accidentally cracked his skull open on a rock.

Richie read this comic once about Chip from Beauty and the Beast: "_Mama, now that the curse is broken, do we get to be human again? Oh, boy! Is… Is that my brain?"_

He threw up until the cycle restarted.

4\. He grabbed Eddie in a bear hug and rolled them both, all the way down to the base of the cistern, like Ben, rolling down the Barrens.

That actually worked, until Eddie started taunting Pennywise and got himself bit in the face. Richie wondered if his exposure to the Deadlights would result in some sort of _Inception_-style meta-hallucination, but when the cycle restarted, it looked like the same hellscape as always.

Richie seriously considered the possibility that he had died, and this was his own personal hell, but there would be more Game of War ads.

5\. Bear hug, roll, keep Eddie behind him. Pennywise attacks from the opposite direction.

6\. Bear hug, roll, corral Eddie into a cavern. Leave him behind to battle Pennywise. Return to find Eddie's face crushed in by a falling rock. It was lodged in the middle, like those bowling balls they drop on mattresses to show how soft they are. A few springs were poking out.

At least, by then, Richie knew it was a pretty painless death.

Every time Eddie died, he restarted the cycle. It was usually easiest to do nothing. By the time Eddie died, nothing was just about all Richie could do.

7…

It took him twenty-four more tries, even though Stan had given him the answer after three.

"How many times, Rich?"

"Too many. But that was my fault, though." Eddie didn't need to know most of what had gone on in the Deadlights, but he had to know that much. "I took too long to figure it out. It was— It wasn't like what Bev saw. It was more like virtual reality, I guess. Complete with the simulator-sickness. Bobby got me an Oculus Rift for Christmas last year, and I had to wipe the headsets down with Clorox between levels. He thought I could use it to take a 'virtual vacation.' You know, so I wouldn't take a real one? It just wasn't the same. Mostly because everything smelled like Clorox." Richie took off his glasses and set them on the coffee table. He was legally blind without them, but sometimes that was a relief. That thought always made him feel guilty. Real blind people didn't have a choice. "I didn't know the first loop was— that it wasn't real."

"I know you saw me die," said Eddie. They were still whispering, like there was anything lurking in the shadows anymore. "I could feel it. I was supposed to die. That claw— I still don't know how you did it."

"I didn't," said Richie. "Stan did."

"Stan?"

"It had to be all seven of us," said Richie. "Lucky seven. We had some help, though."

Stan's first encounter with Pennywise had been early that summer, not long after the last day of school. A voice called to Stan from inside the Standpipe, claiming it belonged to the "dead ones." He got out by repeating bird names, like he was trying to kill a boner or something.

He was hesitant to talk about it at first, but Richie's complete irreverence for personal boundaries had eventually won him over.

The "dead ones" were all the children who had drowned in the Standpipe. All the children who, like Stan, wouldn't stop floating until Pennywise was underground for good.

Like Georgie, who always liked Richie best, after Bill, because Richie told the best jokes. He even remembered to keep them PG in front of Georgie. Most of the time.

Old people never believed like kids did.

And Georgie had been a kid for twenty-seven years.

So Richie called them.

It had been so long since anyone called them, most of them actually came. Some of them were dressed like extras from The Crucible. Some were in their Easter best. There was a grown man in a beaver hat, but he looked motherfucking pissed, so Richie stayed out of his way. There was Eddie Corcoran, and Betty Ripsom, and Cheryl Lamonica, and Veronica Grogan. There was Patrick Hockstetter.

Richie never thought he'd be asking Patrick for help— Patrick fucking Hockstetter, with his shit talking and lip licking. He made sure Richie never felt like the only gay person in Derry. Even in the cistern, it made him shiver, but Richie could swallow his pride. It went down easier than Eddie's blood.


	8. Chapter 8

Eddie kept touching Richie, who didn't have the self-control to stop him. Richie had been just as clingy after Neibolt (until they got to the Bangor International Airport, when he dropped Eddie's hand said, "Bang her? I barely know her!") The least he could do was let Eddie cop his own feel and try not to enjoy it too much.

"We you even going to tell us?" Eddie's fingers were curled in Richie's curls.

"Why would I?" He cocked his head like Ben's dog, so Eddie wouldn't get a cramp in his wrist.

"Then why did you?"

"I didn't mean to," said Richie. "I'm sorry."

Eddie glared at the _Amphigorey_. "I'm not mad at you for telling me! I'm mad at you for not telling me!"

"I'm getting a lot of mixed messages here."

"Well, you should be used to that!"

"What?"

"Nothing." Eddie blew a breath out, like he was trying to make a very serious birthday wish. "We should tell the other losers. They might be able to— Mike—"

"They can't do anything," said Richie. He straightened, and shook his head, looking more like Mr. Brown than ever.

The dog's real name was Poncho, because Ben had misremembered Pongo's name from _101 Dalmatians_, but it didn't matter after Beverly nicknamed him Mr. Brown. Sometimes, she called him, Mr. Shit. He answered to exactly none of these names.

He was a big black brown mongrel with white circles under his eyes, like the inverse of Richie's black bags. Richie had special ordered him treats from Pet So Chic in Paris just so he could be the favorite uncle. Competition was fierce.

Eddie immediately laid hands on his arm. Both hands, twisting slightly, like he was giving Richie the softest Indian Burn ever.

"They can fucking—"

"What?" asked Richie. "Say goodbye? Trust me. It's overrated."

He had told Eddie everything that happened in the cistern, all twenty-seven times, with some minor content edits. One thing Eddie didn't need to know was how he looked with his brains dripping from his sweatshirt hood, like pasta water from a colander.

"We don't know for sure you're—"

"I know."

"How?"

"I just do."

"_Rich_—"

"_Eds_."

Maybe he was sticking to single words because Richie kept interrupting him. It would have been a better strategy against someone who hadn't spent the majority of their adolescence telling Interrupting Cow jokes.

Richie sighed. "It started with some memory loss. Not the— that kind. Dizzy spells. Poor coordination. I mean, more than usual. I went to the doctor. They asked me if I'd been hit in the head recently. I said yes, and they ran some tests. Then they asked if I'd been hit in the head more than once."

"You do make a lot of bad jokes," said Eddie, and Richie let out a grateful laugh.

"There's something called CTE. I don't remember what it stands for, but—"

"Chronic traumatic encephalopathy." Eddie was paler than Richie had seen him in real life.

Richie shrugged. "I like the old-fashioned name better. Except I always thought 'punch drunk' was about getting drunk off punch. Usually only athletes and veterans get it, but Dr. Andretta wanted to run some more tests, just in case."

"I thought CTE could only be diagnosed…"

"Postmortem." Richie nodded. "Yeah. No. There's a new technique using a PET scan and some sort of tracing chemical."

Richie had been given pants, a gown, and hospital socks with treads on both the top and the bottom in case he got confused. Only his head went into the machine, which sounded like a computer trying to connect to dial-up. It would have been boring even if the sound hadn't automatically made him impatient. When it was over, he stole the socks.

"It's definitely CTE, but... Usually, these sorts of symptoms would take years to manifest. I got them a week before the seizures started."

Dr. Andretta had tried to sign him up for medical studies, the Brain Donation Registry, probably the next BODY WORLDS tour. Richie felt like the biggest jerk since his days slinging soda at Derry Drug's soda counter (the only town that still had soda jerks after 1958), but he was pretty sure he would only skew their results.

He couldn't even donate his liver.

"It's okay," said Richie. "I—"

Eddie started crying again, and Richie suddenly remembered who had taught him the Interrupting Cow joke.


	9. Chapter 9

Richie forgot to take his Celexa. He forgot to check his Eddie's phone for texts from the other Losers. He forgot to eat. When Bobby stopped by the apartment, Richie thought it was a B&E, which only made things marginally more awkward than they already were. The only thing he never forgot were the Losers, so at least God had a sense of humor.

Then again, he was a turtle.

Eddie had agreed not to tell the other Losers anything without Richie's express permission. Richie had thought he was lying, but so far, only Bobby had tried to break down his door.

Bobby was now operating under the belief that Richie had suffered a stroke. He thought it was a joke at first. The tremors, the slur, the unsteady gait. Richie's dizziness had become so omnipresent that he could barely walk under his own power. He leaned on Eddie more often than not.

He forgot to lean on Eddie when he tried to get the aluminum bat from his bedroom, and the six inch gash in his forehead was what finally convinced Bobby to leave. Eddie's yelling might have had something to do with it.

Richie never forgot the Losers, but one day, he did forget that Stan was dead. Eddie tried to hide his tears. It wasn't his fault his eyes were so big.

Richie had the pills all lined up before he remembered how Stan had died.

He couldn't do that to Eddie, but he couldn't keep doing this to Eddie either.

"I wanna' die," he said, one day at breakfast. Richie was pretty sure it was breakfast. They ate Cheerios for most meals, but Eddie looked a little less tired than usual.

Well, he _had_ looked a little less tired than usual.

"Richie—"

"No," said Richie. "I'mma' die anyway. Might's'well get it over with. I worked out my will witha'lawyer. You get everything, on the condition that you make the other Losers compete for their share. You getta' choose the competition, but I was picturing some American Ninja Warrior shit."

It was the most Richie had said in almost a week. The barely-there slur sent him nonverbal most days. It reminded him of the Richie in the Doll Room at Neibolt. Mouth sewn shut. That was what it felt like. He could speak; it would just hurt a lot.

Eddie didn't mind. They could communicate well enough without words. One of Eddie's caterpillar-like eyebrows would arch halfway through _Saw 22_, and Richie would know he was thinking about how Ben looked like Santa Clause when he smiled, no matter what size he was. It was their rosy cheeks, the lushes. The angle would change, and Richie could practically hear the rebuke. _If anyone's a lush, it's you. _He was half-convinced Eddie's eyebrows were sentient. The other half was convinced Richie had hallucinated the entire exchange, at least until Eddie started humming, "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."

The Losers were coming to LA in two months, if only because Eddie and Richie had refused to go anywhere else. It was the first Losers Reunion, and Eddie had no idea what to do about it.

Richie did. He grabbed some papers from the Drawer of Inappropriate Starches, wiped off the Cheetos crumbs, and passed the stack to Eddie.

Richie had been spending a lot of time at the hospital lately, mostly at Eddie's insistence. Test and retests and a few trips that seemed to be just for fun. He hadn't eaten that much Jell-O since he was ten.

By the time Richie hit middle school, Maggie Tozier had gone through so many diet phases that she ran out of normal Jell-O recipes (i.e. shots). Then she found a copy of the _Betty Crocker Good and Easy Cookbook_ at Derry's only Goodwill. It included a dish called Pacific Lime Mold, which actually managed to taste worse than it sounded. Richie took a sick day to burn the cookbook and then another one when Maggie found a second copy on eBay. On the bright side, they both lost a bunch of weight from the food poisoning.

Pacific Lime Mold was just the gateway recipe to Boola-Boola Soup.

_Mix together 1 can each of turtle soup and green pea soup. Heat and add sherry flavoring to taste. Top with a spoonful of whipped cream. 4 servings._

Richie had asked the librarian, Barbara Starrett, about Boola-Boola Soup. She didn't understand it any better than he did, but together they learned that it was named after the fight song of Yale University. They found a short film of Kim Novak dancing to the song with really big… pompons, and Richie had pretended to be more interested than he was.

He preferred the Undertaker, another cheer written by Allan M. Hirsh. The Undertaker was a mournful wail that went around the stadium like the Wave. Fans used it to unsettle the opposing team.

Richie didn't stick around to watch Eddie read the informational pamphlet for California's End of Life Option Act.


	10. Chapter 10

Eddie left Richie with a mini-box of Multigrain Cheerios, a carton of almond milk, and _The Good Place_ on Netflix. Richie's phone was on the tray next to his bed. Eddie had found it in the couch cushions and blocked Bobby before giving it back. Richie didn't mention the missing contact information. Neither did Eddie, in case it reminded him.

He met Mike for lunch at Nobu, and from there they drove straight to the Bangor International. Ben and Beverly had taken the boat to Bill's house so they could fly in together. When anyone asked about Richie, Eddie said, "He's working." It lost its effect when they pulled into Dignity Health.

"What's going on, Eddie?" asked Bill. "What are we doing here?"

"Richie wants to be the one to explain."

The Losers looked relieved when they were led away from ICU. Richie had a private room in the long-term care section of the hospital. It wasn't as clearly labeled as Intensive Care, because most of its visitors knew their way around. Eddie would've had the layout memorized even if he didn't have a compass in his head.

Richie was in Room 237.

"Wazzup, fuckers!"

"Are you drinking?" asked Bill, apparently forgetting that the only alcohol around was isopropyl. Then again, Richie had snuck a flask into synagogue for Stan's Bar Mitzvah.

And Stan had been so pleased when he agreed to wear the kippah.

"Just almond milk. Although apparently, I'mma' go to hell now, thanks t'Eds."

"What are you—"

"Hav'a seat, Billiam. I got some news. S'not the good kind."

Eddie picked up the half-empty carton of Cheerios, which were starting to sink. He took it to the kitchen to rinse and recycle.

The kitchen was technically for nurses, but they had taken pity on Eddie. It ran perpendicular to the main hall, like the kitchen on an airplane.

Eddie had often flown for work. Takeoffs and landings used to give him anxiety, even though they occurred when the plane ostensibly had the least distance to fall, but there was nothing to be done for it. Most airlines frowned on using oxygen masks for recreational purposes.

Eddie wondered how he had ever been scared of anything that wasn't this.

When he returned to Room 237, Richie was trying to describe his symptoms, but he kept forgetting the words.

Eddie took over. This was his forte, his entire repertoire, or at least it was supposed to be. He kept forgetting the words too. Neural atrophy. Hydrocephalus. Tauopathy. They weren't just _words_. They were the weight Richie had lost, the fluid in his skull, the scars on his brain.

The Losers looked like they wanted to argue. Denial was the first stage of grief, but they had each of them navigated grief enough to know its shortcuts, and they knew better than Bobby.

They knew that even if Richie hadn't exhausted every option, Eddie would have.

And yet, Mike turned on Eddie in an endearingly hypocritical display of Stage #2. "Why the hell didn't you tell us?"

"I'sked him not to," Richie answered for him. "Bad'nough that he hast'deal with this."

"I'm not dealing with— You aren't something I have to— You— You fucker!"

"See? S'exhausted. Someone take'm out for an ice cream, will you?"

If Eddie closed his eyes, he could almost pretend Richie was just doing one of his voices.

"I'm only _exhausted_, because you're fucking exhausting!" he shouted.

"Then fuckin' kill me!" Richie shouted right back.

"I'm not gonna' fucking kill you, you fucking numbskull!"

"If I'mma' numbskull, then declare me mentally incompetent." Richie's eyes looked hard as glass and just as likely to shatter.

"No matter how fucking tempting that is, I'm not going to declare you fucking incompetent, fucker."

"What are you…?" Bill looked lost.

Just as the Losers could swing between stages of grief, Richie and Eddie could go from fighting to hugging in a matter of seconds. They'd spent the last few days doing a lot of both. At the same time.

Richie had always been uncomfortable receiving physical affection from other men. Eddie was the exception, if only because he was selfish enough to give it anyway.

"I'm Richie's medical proxy now that Bobby is out of the picture," he said. It was obvious the rest of the Losers barely knew who Bobby was, but Eddie was angry enough already. "I don't make any decisions for him unless he can't, but he refuses to do it without my blessing."

"Well, y'already refused to give m'n Mrs. K your blessin', so…"

"Fuck off, Richie."

"Can't. You made me check into a fuckin' hospital."

"I didn't make you do anything."

"Yeah. 'Cept live."

"Do _what_ without your blessing?" asked Mike. He had that look like he wished he didn't already have the answer. It was like his version of Resting Bitch Face. Resting Forbidden Knowledge Face.

"Physician assisted death," said Eddie.

Nobody said anything. Bev's breaths were thin and high, like she couldn't get enough air to cry. Ben was crying, steadily but silently. Mike just looked stunned, like one of the sheep he used to hit with his Grandfather Leroy's bolt gun.

Finally, Bill broke the silence. He said what Eddie had been thinking, and he looked guilty enough for the both of them.

"We just got you back."

"Don't be a Silly Billy," said Richie, but he didn't explain what was so silly about that. Instead, he patted the spot next to him. "Bev, have y'ever seen _The Good Place_?"

He was the one who told Eddie that Marsh/Rogan won an Emmy for the pilot costumes, but Bev slid into the indentation left behind by his hand.

Eddie took Ben, Bill, and Mike to the cafeteria. They got Dixie ice cream cups and left sitting on the table in front of them, like they were candles, there just to melt.

Dr. Andretta had told Eddie that he could bring flameless candles into Richie's room, if he wanted. Eddie had never wanted anything less.

Out of Beverly's sight, Mike and Bill could finally cry. They knew she was stronger than all six of them combined, but the male ego was fragile. (The surest way to test it was to say that to a man.) Ben had already cried in front of Bev when they watched _Bambi_ (both as children and adults), but out of her presence, he could focus on himself instead of only her.

Richie treated people like a math problem, and Eddie would have been less annoyed if it hadn't always worked so well.

Bill + Bev + Mike + Ben + Stan + Richie + Eddie = The Losers.

The Lucky Seven

Richie had known Bev was one of them before anyone else, even Ben. He knew Ben was too, but not Bradley Donovan, who went with Bill to speech therapy in Bangor.

Maybe it wasn't Richie's skill with numbers that made him so good with people. Eddie had fielded a couple of phone calls from Richie's stockbroker since moving in, and apparently, Richie picked all his stocks by chance. Over the years, his stockbroker had gone from crying during their appointments to asking him for investment advice.

Eddie's mommy had once told him stories about something she called the "Shine."

It had been a long time since he believed Sonja Kaspbrak's stories, but to hear her tell it, the Shine was some kind of psychic ability.

The Black Spot was a nightclub that served black soldiers from the nearby Army base. It was burned down by the Maine Legion of White Decency, but Pennywise was probably to blame as well. A fellow named Dick Hallorann was the sole survivor of the fire. He had worked in the club's kitchen. Mommy said that after that night, Dick just _knew _things.

Stan seemed to have a touch of the Shine, and so did Bev. They'd both been victims of the Deadlights. Richie hadn't, not when he was investing in Microsoft, but time didn't matter to the Deadlights.

The Deadlights weren't just bait, like the light of an anglerfish. They drove people crazy. Light had long been a symbol of edification. Maybe, if they didn't take your life, they gave you something else. Something unmeant for the human mind.

Maybe they gave you the Shine.

The word seemed to suit Richie. He had a bit in one of his early sketches— the one where he introduced his fake girlfriend.

"_Before I had a girlfriend, I had no standard for how I should be treated as a human being. You could do anything to me. I was like a young Motown singer. I was just shiny and dumb and easy to trick."_

Richie always had that kind of shine. Even as a tired, dying adult. Like he knew how shit the world was, but every reminder left him shook.

But that wasn't why he made Eddie think of the word "shine."


	11. Chapter 11

"D'y'ever have a hard time tellin' dreams from reality?"

The rest of the Losers were sitting down with Dr. Andretta while Nurse Berger gave Richie a sponge bath, but Eddie had already heard it. Current rate of degeneration. Fatal motor-function failure. Palliative measures. More terminology, but terminology Eddie didn't always understand, because it was terminal. Mommy had her flaws (and was convinced most of them were cancerous), but she never tried to tell Eddie he was dying.

Nurse Berger tucked the covers back around Richie, and he immediately stuck a foot out. He always had to have one foot outside the covers, even when the covers were a sleeping bag, or someone's coat, or someone.

Eddie waited until Nurse Berger left before saying, "Well, yeah, considering our reality was like... if someone accidentally cast John Wayne Gacy on _Cowboys vs. Aliens_."

Richie huffed a laugh. "No'm talkin' 'bout like… Walmart."

"Oh, everyone feels like that in Walmart."

"No," he laughed again. "I mean, everyday shit. Workin', eatin', cleanin' grout."

"You have never cleaned grout," said Eddie, with more assurance than he would usually allow himself.

"Whatever, douchebag. Y'know what I mean. Feels like I've been sleepwalkin' all m'life." Richie didn't say anything else, but it was almost as if Eddie could hear him anyway. "_I don't want to sleep anymore, Eds. I don't want to be in the dark. Please promise me you won't leave me in the dark."_

Eddie couldn't speak, so he held out his little finger.

They shook pinkies. It took Richie a few tries to hook them together. Tremors.

"S'like… I watched _Bucket List_, but I still didn't get it. There'some stuff you gotta' prioritize. Doesn't matter if y'learn to forgive or— or get on antidepressants before you die. Some things, you gotta' do before you can live."

"Richie…"

"I'm okay," he said, and this time, he didn't let Eddie interrupt him. "I am. Did what I wanted. Just wish I'd done it sooner."

"What did you do?" Eddie asked, sure enough he knew the answer, but Richie surprised him.

"Forgave myself."

"What?" He frowned. "For what?"

Richie laughed some more. "Nuh uh. This secret, I'll take t'the grave."

With the slur, for a second, Eddie thought he said, "This secret will take me to the grave."

"Well, now you have to tell me."

"Can't. S'not ethical to tell someone a secret if it might hurt them. You shouldn't've made me watch _The Good Place_."

"Is this about the Deadlights?"

"_It's about you."_

"I already know how close I came to dying," said Eddie.

He may not have spent his life sleepwalking, but he had definitely been bedridden. Every new place or person was death in disguise. Myra hadn't even wanted him to work, but the thought of being a kept man made Eddie sicker than all his imaginary illnesses, so he scored his little victories. His job. His car. His occasional ticket to a comedy show at the Radio City Music Hall.

"_I love to play venues where, if the guy that built the venue could see me on the stage, he would be a little bit bummed about it. Look at this. This is so much nicer than what I'm about to do. It's really… It's really tragic. What a historic and beautiful and deeply haunted building this is. I keep walking through cold spots being like, 'I wonder who that used to be.'"_

"According to Myra, I'm constantly flirting with death," said Eddie, still half-lost in memory, "but what can I say? Death makes me laugh."

Richie cracked up.

"Oh, my god," said Eddie. "I didn't mean—"

Richie was laughing so hard he was gasping with it.

"Richie?"

Richie was gasping.

Eddie ran out into the hallways, forgetting about the panic button in his panic. When he returned to Room 237 with Nurse Berger right behind him, Richie had stopped gasping. The only sound in the room came from the heart monitor.

Eddie kept waiting for a second beep.


	12. Chapter 12

The hospital responded to the respiratory attack with full code treatment, but without further advance directive or a living will, they had to choose some kind of limit on care. According to Dr. Andretta, this could include a DNR (Do-Not-Resuscitate) order, an order to withhold CPR or cardio-pulmonary resuscitation, an order to remove mechanical ventilation, dialysis, and other life-saving treatments, or simply an order to provide only palliative care.

"_You could try unplugging me and plugging me back in." _

"I don't see why we can't try it," said Ben. It was late. Dr. Andretta had gone off-duty, and visiting hours were about to end. Eddie was allowed to stay, but Nurse Berger had already vetoed a Losers Club sleepover.

"Because we wouldn't be trying it," said Bev, harsher than any of them had expected. "Eddie would, and he's already been through enough."

"It's just a kiss."

"It won't work," said Mike, ever the utilitarian. When Bill had asked Mike why the fuck he didn't call them until Pennywise returned for his encore, Mike had said, "If you remembered, Pennywise might have been the only one to return." Twenty-seven years of loneliness, for one day that may have never come. Richie had called him, "Mikiavelli," and they had all laughed.

"Why not?" asked Bill. "It's a coma. Caused by the Deadlights."

Mike shook his head. "Not directly. He came out of the Deadlights. He was conscious."

"_I bet that was a pretty big disappointment for you, huh, Spaghetti? You're more dwarf than Prince Charming anyway."_

"Wrong fairy tale, dipshit."

"What?"

Bev had asked the question, but they were all looking at him.

"_Same trope, Dopey."_

"I just mean," said Eddie, "That it probably only worked when we were kids because we were kids. Ben had seen _Sleeping Beauty_. There was even that— that poster in the library. Remember? Ms. Starrett put it up after the shitty live-action movie came out? The one where R2-D2 played an elf?"

"It's all about belief," said Bev. She was still looking at Eddie, and he tried not to think about how she might have the Shine.

"Come on Eddie," said Ben. "It doesn't have to mean anything. It's the most medically utilitarian kiss since CPR."

Utilitarian.

There was a critique of utilitarianism called the "happiness pump theory," which Eddie only knew from _The Good Place_ and only remembered because Richie kept making dirty jokes. A happiness pump was someone who did things for others, even at their own expense.

Like dying.

"I'm not doing this with a fucking audience," said Eddie.

No one made a joke. Not even the Richie in his head.

"We'll get some ice cream," said Bev.

"Let's get literally anything else," said Bill.

The Losers filed out of the room, arguing the merits of coffee versus alcohol, and Eddie sat on the edge of the bed.

Richie hadn't been intubated, but there was a full-face NIV (non-invasive ventilation) mask in place. He was also on morphine and lorazepam to prevent respiratory distress. Eddie checked his hands and feet before removing the mask. They were still warm and pink. No signs of cyanosis.

He took one of Richie's warm, pink hands in both of his own. The Richie in his head was still silent, even though this was the time he usually started calling Eddie sick.

"_This wakes princes if you believe it does."_

For once, Eddie's inner voice sounded nothing like Richie, Mommy, Myra, or Morgan Freeman. It didn't even sound like Bev. It sounded… kind of croaky.

"_I'm making you into Boola-Boola Soup."_

That sounded like Richie, but he had no idea what it meant.

Eddie shook his head. He let go of Richie's hand to support himself as he leaned forward. Richie was so still beneath him. Even when he slept, Richie didn't shut up. He snored, spoke, even did impressions. It had mostly been screaming of late, but even that was better than this stillness.

He nosed Richie's pulse point, just to feel it move. For some reason, it reminded him of that first night after they killed It. He and Richie had shared a bed. It wasn't the first time. It might have been the last.

He raised his head, just a little, and kissed Richie on the lips.

The kiss was just like Eddie had always imagined, because Richie remained unresponsive.


	13. Chapter 13

"Nurse Berger said you wanted to see me?"

"Yes. Thank you, Dr. Andretta. Richie made his wishes clear to me. As his medical proxy, I— I request that you remove all life-sustaining measures."

"I understand this is a difficult decision. We'll do everything we can to make Richie comfortable. Do you want to discuss the process now, or would you like to take some time first? There's a chapel on site for—"

"No." Bill. "Thank you."

"We should discuss it now." Mike.

Apparently, they didn't care who saw them cry after all.

There was the sound of a manly shoulder-pat, and Dr. Andretta said, "The process is simple. We continue to give Richie medicine to help with pain or other discomfort. We stop any life support machines for blood pressure and heartbeat. We stop the ventilator in a few steps. After each step, we make sure Richie is comfortable and not short of breath. We turn off the monitor in the room, but we have a monitor outside the room so we can continue to check on him. Are you okay to keep going?"

No one answered, but there must have been some nods.

"The color and temperature of Richie's skin may change. His lips, fingers, and toes may turn blue and grow cold. These changes are normal. Richie's breathing may become faster than normal or slower than normal. His breathing may also stop for short amounts of time. These pauses may get longer as he nears death. Richie may start to sound like he's snoring. As the muscles in his tongue and jaw relax, some saliva collects in the back of his throat. We can give him medicine to help dry the saliva. Does anyone have any questions?"

"_Hey, if I snore loud enough, you might just kill me to get it over with," _Richie thought, as hard as he could, which according to anyone other than the Losers, probably wasn't all that hard.

"Can he hear us?" Eddie.

"_Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,"_ Richie thought, accidentally channeling his inner Stefon.

"Studies have indicated that it's very likely people in comatose states can still hear us. Speaking to him may help to ease his passage."

Dr. Andretta turned off the monitor before he left. The room was silent. Richie had always hated that.

The silence.

The dark.

No one respected Richie, so he hadn't expected them to respect his wishes. It wouldn't be much longer now. On the bright side, hell would probably be… well, bright. Not to mention loud.

Richie hoped his little hero trip had earned him a one-way to the Good Place, the agnostic version of a deathbed confession, but he knew better. Saving Eddie had been nothing but selfish.

Eddie sat on the edge of the bed. Richie was starting to disassociate from his body, but it would always be hyperaware of its proximity to Eddie.

"_You know, it's so unfair that you got a whole compass in your head, and my gaydar doesn't even work."_

Eddie picked up his hand and pressed a kiss its bluish knuckles. Richie thought he'd lost feeling in his extremities, but that kiss felt like it left a _mark_.

Richie didn't want to die without saying it.

An eleventh-hour confession had seemed like some emotionally manipulative bullshit, and Eddie had enough of that in his life, but…

Richie hadn't trusted Eddie to respect his wishes. He hadn't trusted Eddie to keep his secrets. He hadn't included Eddie in his Bucket List, because he didn't believe that Eddie could love him, or even forgive him, and—

Oh.

_Oh_.

At least this time, Richie only wasted one try.

The kids killed Pennywise, but it didn't work because "old people never believed like kids did." It worked because kids were fucking _mean_.

"_Thirteen-year-olds are the meanest people in the world. They terrify me to this day, because 8th graders will make fun of you, but in an accurate way. They will get to the thing that you don't like about you. They don't even have to look at you for long. They'll just be like, 'Ha, ha, ha, ha, hey, look at that high-waisted man. He got feminine hips.' And I'm like, 'No! That's the thing I'm sensitive about!'"_

Bev said, "This kills monsters if you believe it does," and she was right, but Pennywise had to believe it too.

_This wakes princes if you believe it does. _

And okay, Richie wasn't exactly prince material, but he had been called frog-lips with regularity in middle school, so he would take it.

Richie didn't believe in much. He sure as shit didn't believe in himself. But he believed in the magic, because it saved Eddie. He believed in Eddie. And this time, Richie believed that Eddie could save him.

This time, Richie believed that he deserved to be saved.

He held the memory of Eddie's lips on his skin, like a brand, like a scar, like a carving, and _believed. _


	14. Chapter 14

Richie sat up in bed and headbutted Eddie in the sternum.

"Ow," said Eddie, clutching at his chest, and that had been his actual reaction to getting impaled once, so Richie had to resist the urge to lie back down and wait for the landslide.

There were shouts from the other Losers, followed by a few new voices, but the entirety of Richie's not-inconsiderable focus was fixed on Eddie, who looked like a deer in Deadlights.

"_Beep, beep, Richie."_

Apparently headbutting his object of interest was too subtle for Richie, who threw himself forward in what would have been a full-body tackle, if Eddie weren't so fucking _buff_.

Eddie caught him, arms thrown around Richie's waist, heedless of the hospital gown and its inability to cover anything important. In the vagaries of his subconscious, Richie registered latex gloves trying to pry him off of Eddie, but eventually they gave up. Eddie's hands kept moving across Richie's back, touching the base of his neck, before turning around like a Roomba to skim down his sides. Richie even got one of those manly shoulder-pats.

"_Stop crying,"_ thought Eddie, pretty fucking hypocritically, "_You're getting my sweatshirt all wet."_

"_Those aren't tears. I'm… spitting up. You shouldn't have patted my back so hard."_

For once, Eddie didn't try to hide his laughter, and it made Richie feel more alive than the heart monitor someone had turned back on.

"Mr. Tozier, we need to—"

"Wait," said Richie, in a voice that sounded like Donald Duck having a Vietnam flashback (and it wasn't even an impression this time). "I have something to— It's important."

Eddie pulled back, and wow, Richie really had been crying.

"_The Shine,"_ thought Eddie, and Richie guessed it might have merit, since he could _hear Eddie's fucking thoughts_, but that wasn't the important part.

"Stan wasn't weak," he said, and he had always known that, even when he was projecting anger over his own suicidal ideation onto his dead friend, but now he _knew-_knew. "The letters were wrong, but Stan was wrong too. Pennywise got in his head, even over so much space, because Stan was Shinier than the rest of us." After a moment, he added, "Except maybe me. I may be a Jedi now."

Bill took a shaky step forward to hug him, Eddie and all. Then Richie was at the bottom of a veritable fumble pile, at which point the doctors finally stopped arguing over who got credit in the medical journals long enough to begin a battery of completely useless tests. At least Eddie talked them down from a biopsy.

The Losers crowded into the control room, along with Dr. Andretta, a phalanx of consulting physicians, half a dozen med students, and a couple of lawyers. The lawyers were the reason the Losers were allowed. At that point, Richie probably could have asked for a Mai Tai, and they would have brought him one in a little hospital-issued sippy cup.

He was good as new.

Shiny.

Richie laughed, and it was pretty fucking hysterical, but Dr. Andretta didn't order another test. The Losers took turns wheeling Richie back to Room 237, where Eddie joined him in bed, like they were kids again.

"I feel like a kid again," said Richie, because he was on a lot of drugs.

"_I was a kid when I gave up on love, and somehow, that was all I remembered. I may not be a kid anymore but I'm still afraid of getting hurt, and you could hurt me worse than anyone. I don't care. I trust you. I love you," _thought Richie, because he was on a _lot _of drugs.

"_I love you too," _thought Eddie, but then he thought, "_No."_

Richie's heart monitor started playing "Fell in Love with a Girl," which was both embarrassing and inaccurate.

"Shut up," said Eddie. "I love you. I was just tired of not saying it."

"Oh," said Richie, and it sounded like a Slinky going through the garbage disposal, but Eddie smiled like it was the best thing he had ever heard, the weirdo. "I love you too."

"Uh," said Bill. "What?"


	15. Chapter 15

Richie was not a Jedi.

He didn't have telekinesis or mind control (if anything, Benverly's dog obeyed him less than the others), but he could hear the Losers, even when they were thousands of miles apart.

Mike let him sit shotgun on long roadtrips, and Bill bounced plot bunnies off him in the middle of the night. He and Bev had breakfast together most days. Richie got up at 10:00 A.M., and Bev got up at 7:00 A.M., but they were three time zones apart, so it worked out. He did sudoku with Ben.

Like the Great State of California, the Shine required two-party consent. (Myra tried to record Eddie during one of their pre-Restraining Order phone calls, and ended up getting both arrested _and_ famous— the meme went viral meme when people realized it was Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier beatboxing aggressively on the other line).

Richie couldn't eavesdrop on the Losers, but the only secrets between them these days were the surprise parties they were planning for each other. Richie knew of eight so far, and he was only planning three of them.

Eddie was like an open book, except Richie actually wanted to read it. (If Bill woke him up with one more Bury Your Gays ending at four in the morning, Richie was going to bury a fist in his face. Bill was trying to write diverse representation, but horror was not necessarily the best genre for it. Richie had pitched him a subversion of the trope: Resurrect Your Gays— something with a cute dog— and fallen back to sleep with Bill still on the line, spitballing about his alma maters and monkey's paws. They both had nightmares about monkeys in letterman jackets that night. So that was a nice break.

It was harder to control the Shine when Richie was asleep. He and Eddie watched each other die almost every night. They woke each other up, made each other hot chocolate, and made fun of each other for the way they took it (protein powder and Raspberry Marshmallow Fluff).

They saw each other's other nightmares— other fears. Not darker, but deeper. Richie was chased by the Leper, watched the flesh melt off his arms, died in a puddle of himself. Eddie wore white face paint.

"That doesn't make any sense," said Eddie. They both had protein powder that night. Richie knew he would need his energy, either for the conversation that followed, or for running away from it. "You're old, but you're not _that _old."

Richie shook his head— he didn't _know_-know it, but he had believed it long enough for it to be a habit.

It was basic math.

Richie was afraid of clowns + Pennywise took the appearance of people's fears + Pennywise took the appearance of a clown = Pennywise was somehow Richie's fault.

"Besides," said Eddie. "I always thought you were lying about being afraid of clowns."

There were various theories as to the cause of coulrophobia. Pattern disruption, liminality, ritualized self-humiliation. That last one had merit. It was at the core of clown humor. Teardrop tattoos (or makeup) were worn by clowns to symbolize the dialectical relationship between humor and tragedy. Before they came to symbolize murder. Teardrop tattoos, not clowns.

Well…

Richie had his own theory: Audience participation. He might have heckled on occasion, but he had never, even under direct orders from Bobby, made his audience _participate_.

"_Oh, yeah."_

Richie's head was pillowed on Eddie's chest, even though his pecs could rate on Mohs Scale of Mineral Hardness. Sometimes it was easier for Richie to be honest if he didn't have to make eye contact, or talk, or otherwise acknowledge it in any way.

Eddie ran his fingers through Richie's hair. Even the white streaks were gone. Bill was _so _jealous. It was the second best part about being alive.

"So what were you really afraid of?" asked the first best part.

Richie made the "I dunno'" noise in his head, but he let a little of it slip through: the fear, the guilt, and _Georgie, _and _Stan_, and _I'm sorry_.

"Oh, Richie." The fingers stuttered against his scalp. "None of that was your fault. You know that, right?"

"_If I had believed, if I had known, if I had the Shine_, _if—"_

"No," said Eddie. It was one of his favorite words these days, but he rarely said it to Richie (unless Richie was trying to plan a surprise party for Benverly's dog). "_No_. None of that is true. You know what you were afraid of."

"_Get the fuck out, you faggot!"_

"Ugh." Eddie shuddered. "The impressions in your head are spot on. I hate it."

He pressed a kiss to Richie's forehead, which he could reach because no matter how much Richie believed, he couldn't cure premature balding.

"You've felt so much guilt for just existing, Richie. You're allowed to be alive. "

"_I couldn't bring Stan back," _thought Richie.

He had tried, even knowing it would fail. Stan was gone, along with the rest of Its victims. They had passed on. Richie didn't know exactly what that meant, but if anyone deserved a Good Place, it was Stan.

"You deserve a Good Place too," said Eddie. "Just not anytime soon."

Richie still felt like an imposter in his own skin most days, let alone in Eddie's arms, but...

"_I'm already there."_

"Really?" asked Eddie. "Because I was thinking we should get a bigger place. With a bathroom that doesn't have a hole in the door."

"_That's not what I meant."_

For the first time, Richie was brave enough to let Eddie see exactly how he was loved.

"_Oh,"_ thought Eddie, and even his thoughts sounded breathless.

"Yeah," said Richie.

This time, when Eddie kissed him, he was very… responsive.


End file.
